Page 24 of The Duke
Imogen stood, her broom in one hand and dustpan in the other. “I’ll get you a new glass,” she offered dryly, trying to avoid the disgusting sight of the spittle studding his beard. She turned away, making for the rubbish bin behind the bar.
“How much for this one, del Toro?” The man slapped her behind as she passed him. “She seems obedient. I like that.”
Del Toro paused from where he enjoyed his imported cigar in the corner. “She’s my serving bird,” he answered easily. “She’s not for sale, Barton. But help yourself to any of my kittens, sir, at a discount since it’s a slow night.”
“Not for sale, everyone’s for sale!” Barton argued. “How much, and I’ll pay it?”
Del Toro’s eyes flickered over her, and he sent her a secret smile that curdled like sour milk in her stomach. “Someone once paid twenty pounds for her.” He blew a perfect ring of smoke. “You can have her for that much.”
“Ha! That’s an entire bargeload of shit, del Toro. She in’nt worth twenty shillings, tits that small.”
“My hand to God.” Del Toro enjoyed his own story with a hearty laugh. “Believe me or don’t.”
“Who was the doffer wot paid it?” Barton challenged.
“Now, Barton, what would your wife think if I went around disclosing my clientele?” Del Toro was without scruples, certainly, but not without savvy. “A man in my business must be discreet.” He gave Imogen a wink, but tossed his head toward the bar in a silent order to get back to work.
Discarding the shards of the glass into the rubbish bin, she stowed the broom and dustpan and returned to fill the odious Mr. Barton another drink.
“I’ll do it, Ginny.” Jeremy Carson flashed that kind, boyish smile of his and, not for the first time, Imogen noted that his cobalt eyes seemed to have witnessed ages. “I’ll deal with your table if you deal with that, though I don’t know that I’m doing you any favors.” He pointed to a puddle of vomit left beneath a table of old and grumbling men who’d decided now was a good time to settle the bill.
Sighing, Ginny decided she’d rather clean up vomit than serve human excrement like Mr. Barton.
“It’s a full moon tonight,” Jeremy mused seriously. “They say it makes people do strange and terrible things. Best watch yourself, Ginny.”
“Thank you, Jeremy.” She mustered a grateful smile, and went in search of a pail.
She spent the night working through her predicament in her head. Rent was due in a week, and she’d not have it. The larder was full—well—as full as it ever was, and they wouldn’t starve if they were careful for at least two weeks. Maybe she could apply for another nursing position at a different hospital. She didn’t have references, but if she wasn’t mistaken, Dr. Longhurst held her in some respect. Perhaps she could convince him to write an unofficial letter of recommendation.
The thought cheered her slightly as she emptied the rubbish bins into the can in the side alley out back. Her arm ached from the strain as she used one to clutch her shawl over her wig to keep the curls from loosening in the rain. All she had to do was wait until Dr. Longhurst finished his shift at St. Margaret’s and catch him as he left. She could even pen the letter for him and persuade him to sign it, and then she wouldn’t have to rely on him to remember—
Rough hands grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and bent her farther forward, forcing her head over the foul-smelling bin.
Imogen cried out, but a big body bent over hers, clapping another hand over her mouth and forcing her to breathe in the stench of the rubbish.
“If you’re not for sale, then I’ll take you for free.” Barton’s breath smelled of cigarettes and gin, an odor foul enough to rival that of the rot beneath her. Fear, disgust, and the stench had bile crawling up the back of Imogen’s throat. She swallowed it and a scream, knowing neither could escape her covered mouth.
She tried to bite him, to rear back so the bin’s edge wouldn’t cut into the tender flesh of her belly, but he jerked her head to the side so roughly that she feared he’d break her neck should he try it again.
“Struggle and I’ll make you regret it. Scream and I’ll knock you unconscious,” he warned, and began to gather her skirts behind her.
If shedidn’tfight him, she’d regret it all her life.
Going limp, she once again swallowed her revulsion and reached into the bin, rummaging frantically until she found what she’d been searching for. A shard of the glass he’d broken earlier.
Palming it, she waited for him to shift in order to undo his trousers. When he did, she jerked her body around and struck at him. The glass cut her too, but she knew she’d found her mark when he grunted and released her. The makeshift weapon caught him in the ribs, beneath his arm. Painful, but not fatal.
Not deep enough.
He struck back then, his sharp fist opening a cut on her lip and collapsing her to the dirty stones of the alley. Explosions of darkness in different shades danced in her periphery, and Imogen clung to consciousness as fervently as she clung to the sharp glass in her hand.
“Even the law knows you cannot rape a whore,” he slurred, bending over her, fist cocked to strike again. “When I’m through, you’ll—”
She didn’t allow him to finish his threat. Lunging forward, she slammed the glass into his neck, right above the clavicle. He screamed then and jerked away, leaving the thick shard of glass in her viselike grip.
Warm blood sprayed her from the wound, until he covered it with his hand, stanching the flow.
Terrified, desperate, Imogen surged past him, hoping to escape.
